CHRONOSCAPE: The future is flexible we can change it

by Roger Ley

  He entered a double life. During working hours, he was Dr Martin Riley, respected high energy physics researcher, leader of a team of scientists at Cambridge University, analyzing data from the low Energy Antiproton Ring accelerator at CERN. At lunch times, he became a furtive punter driving around Cambridge, spreading bets in different bookmakers. He had to involve Estella because it doubled the number they could place without repeating visits.

  “What are we going to do with it all?” asked Estella. They had pulled the suitcase out from under the bed and tipped the bundles of notes out onto the floor just for the fun of looking at them.

  “Let’s buy a house, we’ve enough for the down payment.” He had been reasonably happy as a bachelor but Estella had brought something into his life he hadn’t known was missing. He was a workaholic and could get absent minded when he was fully engaged with a research problem. It was Estella who reminded him to shower and shave, who made him eat properly, made him change his clothes and tried to stop him biting his fingernails. She cared for him. She also took the piss a lot, but he didn’t mind that. He loved her and she seemed to love him. “We could even think about getting married.”

  “Was that your idea of a proposal?” she asked after a short pause. “You’re going to have to do better than that Martin.”

  They opened bank accounts in the Channel Islands and made occasional trips to St Peter Port to deposit their winnings. They kept their bets moderate and began travelling to betting shops outside their area, they wore different clothes and even used different accents. The money kept rolling in.

  Secretly, Riley still worried that this was a scam operated by a gang of horse dopers. He half expected that one night there would be a knock at his front door and imagined himself peering, through the curtains of the upstairs flat, at shady characters waiting on the doorstep below, come to claim their money. He bought a cricket bat in a charity shop and kept it by his bed.

  Chapter Two

  England the 1990s

  “Ah, Dr Riley thanks for coming,” Riley stepped into his faculty head’s office. The memo summoning him had been left in his pigeon hole. He supposed that it was too late for an oldster like Middleton to get to grips with the new technology and send emails like everybody else.

  “Not at all Professor Middleton, how can I help?” He coughed. He hated the smell of the small cigars that his boss smoked, the air in the room was blue and he never opened any windows.

  Riley was unimpressed with Middleton as a scientist. Even though he led the physics faculty he hadn’t published a paper in living memory. He had only two years to go before he enjoyed his index linked retirement. Riley had noticed that he was careful not to cause administrative ripples, he was probably hoping to get an honor for “outstanding contributions to education” or something similar. The framed display of hand tied fishing flies, on the wall above his boss’s head said it all, thought Riley. He might as well put up a notice saying, “I’d rather be fishing than doing science.” Riley wanted to be sitting in this office, leading the department, pushing the envelope, getting recognition from his peers. He secretly dreamed of a Nobel Prize and wondered if the emails were the route to one. The money he was accruing was all right but what he wanted more was recognition. He pulled up a chair, sat down and attempted to look attentive.

  “Have you heard of John Oakwood?” asked Middleton as he leaned back in his swivel chair and puffed his noxious smoke at the ceiling.

  “Dr John Oakwood, the Chief Scientific Adviser to the Government?”

  “Yes. Well, he’s coming here to discuss a new contract we will be bidding for. We’ll be in competition with the particle physics people at Warwick but I think we can confidently assume that the light blues will have it. Why he wants to get involved at this level I don’t know, but there it is, politics.” Middleton made a gesture of helplessness, gave a wry smile and took another puff on his cheroot. Riley imagined that he must be secretly thrilled to be hosting a VIP of this caliber; the bragging rights would be enormous at management meetings. The best way to magnify them was to pretend indifference, but Middleton obviously knew that.

  “He wants to keep things low key, no fuss. He likes to speak to the people at the chalk face doing the research, not old war horses like me, so I’ll need you to be at the meeting.”

  Riley felt a frisson of excitement. “Fine” he said evenly, “no problem, I’ll make sure my team wear clean lab coats, in case he wants to go walkabout.”

  “Good, good, that’s one problem solved then.” Middleton looked down and placed a tick on the list that lay on his desk. “I’ll send you details of the contract, so you can prepare the proposal.” He looked up and smiled, “Don’t let me keep you Dr Riley.” He returned his attention to his paperwork.

  Riley left the office barely able to hide his excitement; shutting the door he silently punched the air as he walked down the corridor to his section. Back in his office, he paced the carpet, unable to settle, he couldn’t believe his luck. He went and found Estella in the laboratory and, holding her by the elbow, hurried her back with him, closed the door and leaned against it.

  “I say, Martin, not before coffee surely?” she laughed.

  In the early days of their relationship, Riley and Estella had consummated it over his office desk several times, after working hours. These days they were more sensible, although they had recently “done it” in a bus shelter one night, while they were waiting for the last bus.

  “You’ll never believe this,” he said. “The Government’s chief scientist is visiting here next week. He wants to discuss a high energy physics contract.”

  “Marvelous,” she said, “and what’s that got to do with the price of fish?”

  “I’m going to ask him to fund the TM project.”

  Estella sat on a chair and looked thoughtful. “How are you going to get him alone?” she asked, “and when you do, how are you going to convince him? ‘Messages from the future,’ it’ll sound completely bonkers. You might find yourself looking for another job.”

  “Yes, well, I can always fall back on my modelling career.”

  She laughed, rather unkindly he thought.

  “I’ll have to play it by ear,” he said.

  A week later, Riley was sitting in a conference room listening to his head of faculty, various other section heads, the Government’s chief scientist and his civil servants, discussing the research project. As they broke for coffee, Oakwood announced his wish to visit the gents and Riley quickly offered to show him the way. Fortunately, the place was empty and their footsteps echoed off the hard, shiny surfaces as they walked in and the door swung closed behind them.

  The two men stood at the urinals, leaving one vacant between them as convention required.

  “So, no sign of the Higgs Boson yet Dr Riley?” asked Oakwood.

  “I understood that you were a biologist Dr Oakwood.” During the meeting, the breadth of Oakwood’s knowledge had surprised Riley.

  “I’m usually well briefed by my team before I come on these expeditions,” he said. “No scientist could fail to be fascinated by the new discoveries in your area though. Quantum fields, elementary particles, gravity waves, so many exciting things for you young Turks to explore.”

  Riley stopped pretending to piss, he would have been far too nervous, even if he’d needed to. He zipped up his fly and turned towards the other man.

  “Sorry Dr Oakwood but this will be the only opportunity I have to speak to you alone,” he said, interrupting the other man’s musings. “I need a few minutes to make my ‘elevator pitch,’ I’ve a proposal I believe will lead to the most important scientific breakthrough of the century.”

  Oakwood turned to look at him, his face expressionless.

  “Really,” he said as if it was something he heard every day.

  Riley paused for a second then continued, “For several months now I’ve been receiving messages from the future.”

  Oakwood stared straight ahead, Riley kne
w he couldn’t walk away in mid-stream.

  “And what form do these messages take Dr Riley?” he asked. “Voices in your head or something more concrete, Tarot cards perhaps, tea leaves, chicken giblets?”

  Riley sighed; he knew this was going to be the most difficult part.

  “No, racing tips actually.”

  “Racing tips,” said Oakwood as he shook, zipped and stepped back from the urinal. “Racing tips. Winning racing tips?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Well, twenty-seven so far.”

  “All winners, no losers?”

  Riley nodded. Oakwood moved to the hand basins on the opposite wall and spoke to Riley’s reflection in the mirror above, as he rinsed his hands.

  “And can you prove any of this?” he asked as he turned to pull paper towels from the dispenser.

  “I realize how this sounds Dr Oakwood, but I have records of all the bets I’ve laid. I’d be happy to show you my bank statements, you can see the deposits. In the meantime, I wanted to give you this.” He tucked a card into the top pocket of the older man’s suit. “I’ve written the winners of three races at different racecourses tomorrow on the back of that Doctor. You might like to have a flutter on them, I can guarantee the results.”

  Oakwood dropped his paper towels in a bin and removed the note from his pocket. He examined it as they walked to the door and Riley pulled it open to let Oakwood pass. He made no comment as they re-join the meeting. Oakwood left at lunchtime.

  “Very nice to meet you Doctor,” said Riley. He gave a wan smile as they shook hands, Oakwood’s expression was unreadable, as he nodded his goodbye.

  The next evening, as Riley arrived home on his new racing cycle, he noticed a black Range Rover parked in the street outside. He leaned the bike against the front hedge and as he went to open the front gate, the driver’s door opened. A man in his early forties stepped out and approached. He wore a grey suit and had flecks of grey in his hair, he moved with confidence and had a characterful nose; Riley guessed, from his build, that he might have broken it playing rugby or possibly boxing.

  “Good evening Dr Riley, my name is Paul Burnley.” He held up an identity card for a moment and Riley caught the letters “SIS” printed on it as it passed by his line of sight. “Dr Oakwood has asked me to escort you to a meeting with him, if you could just get into the car sir.” He moved to the rear door and reached to open it.

  Riley stepped back, “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about.” His voice quavered slightly and was higher pitched than he meant it to be. He cleared his throat.

  Smith tapped the roof of the car and the other doors opened. Three athletic-looking younger men dressed in dark suits climbed out and walked over to Riley. They surrounded him, standing closer than he liked.

  “I want to speak to my lawyer if I’m under arrest.” Riley noticed that his voice had quavered again. He felt little trickles of sweat running from his armpits and across his ribcage. He realized that he didn’t know any lawyers.

  The older man sighed. “Look sir, there’s no need to excite yourself, I’m not arresting you, I only want to take you to a meeting with Dr Oakwood.” He spoke deliberately as if to a child. “So, it would save us both a lot of trouble if you could just get in the car please.”

  Riley made a move towards the safety of his front gate. With startling efficiency, two of the younger men grabbed his arms while the third cable tied his wrists. They bundled him into the back of the car, with one man sitting on either side of him. The third walked back and got into the driving seat.

  “There now, that wasn’t too difficult was it sir?” said Burnley as he got into the front and slammed the door. He sighed and muttered something to the driver. As they set off, Riley looked back and saw a flash of light from his front garden. It was hidden from view as the car rounded a bend. He looked forward as they drove off through Cambridge and then South on the M11 motorway. He hoped Estella was all right, she’d gone to the supermarket but wasn’t due home yet.

  Riley’s emotions were in turmoil. He hadn’t had a fight since he was a child. Burnley and his agents scared him, he was trembling and had no idea what would happen next. Would they torture him? Murder him? Imprison him under the Official Secrets act? What powers did these people have, official or otherwise?

  “Where are you taking me? Estella’s expecting me, when will I get back? What about my bicycle?” He realized that he was gibbering.

  “Now don’t worry,” said Burnley. “You won’t be away for long, Dr Oakwood just wants a little chat with you, and then we’ll get you home safe and sound. I’m sure your bicycle will come to no harm.”

  The other agents chuckled quietly and the rest of the journey passed in silence, Burnley ignored him, and the agents stared out of the windows. What with the exertions of his bike ride home and now all this stress, Riley realized that he was beginning to smell rank. Nobody commented, he assumed that they were used to the smell of fear. Other people’s unpleasant body odors, just another, seldom mentioned aspect in the exciting life of a secret agent. He felt calmer as he thought the situation through, Oakwood must take his pitch seriously. If he’d written Riley off as just another nutty scientist, then he wouldn’t be sitting in the back of a car full of secret agents, speeding towards a meeting with the British Government’s chief scientific adviser. Things might not be as bad as they seemed.

  Their destination was a detached house in a residential street in Bishop’s Stortford. It was set back from the road, Riley guessed that it had been built in the nineteen twenties.

  “This is one of our safe houses Dr Riley,” said Burnley. “Dr Oakwood is waiting for you inside.” They helped him out of the car and then stood in the porch while an agent knocked and spoke into an intercom. A man in shirtsleeves opened the door and as they entered Riley saw the he was wearing a shoulder holster, with a nasty looking black automatic pistol in it. His confidence took a downturn. He stumbled over the sill and realized that he was sweating again. With an agent on either side of him, he followed Burnley through the hall and into the lounge where Oakwood was standing with his back to the gas fire. The room felt warm and welcoming, a piece of classical music that Riley couldn’t identify was playing in the background. The furnishings were bland and tasteless but looked unused.

  “Ah, Riley, how nice to see you again. I say, remove those restraints at once,” he said harshly and Burnley produced a pair of wire cutters and briskly cut through the cable ties. Riley wondered what other uses they had been put to.

  “Good for pulling out fingernails, are they?” he asked as he massaged his wrists.

  “No sir, we use pliers for that,” said Burnley, he put his other hand in his jacket pocket and brought a pair out, “but only if it’s necessary.” He looked into Riley’s eyes for a moment unsmiling, and Riley shuddered as he saw the lack of emotion. He dropped his tool kit, and the broken cable ties, back into his pocket and walked out of the room to join his unobtrusive colleagues.

  “I am so sorry,” said Oakwood. “I gave orders they should treat you with the utmost respect. Can I offer you one of these?” Oakwood held out a tumbler with a generous measure of amber liquid in it. Behind him, on a coffee table, Riley noticed a bottle of fifty-year-old Macallan and another tumbler. Oakwood turned and poured himself a small one. “Your tipple I believe,” he said smiling and holding up the bottle. “Sit here by the fire. We can have our talk in comfort.” Riley sat, and knocked back his whiskey.

  “I don’t usually do that,” he said and looked at the glass as it trembled in his hand.

  “No, no, of course. My dear fellow, you’ve had a terrible shock.” Oakwood leaned across and poured him another measure. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it has all been an unfortunate misunderstanding.” Riley didn’t believe a word, he was convinced that they had scared him on purpose, as a way of establishing dominance over him.

  He sat and waited, rubbing his wrists, more
from nerves than discomfort. His bonds hadn’t been tight, there was no point in complaining, in fact he was pleased they were taking him so seriously. He looked around at the insipid decor and noticed the slight squeaking from the electric fire’s flame effect mechanism.

  “We watch our scientists carefully you know, depending on the work they’re doing and its implications for national security,” said Oakwood. “Your work has not had a high enough priority to merit more than routine scrutiny. After our conversation yesterday, I put in a query about you.” He passed Riley a note which showed the account numbers and balances of all of his and Estella’s bank accounts, including the one in the Channel Islands which his bank had assured him was safe from inspection by the Inland Revenue.

  “Please understand Dr Riley, that I am not a spy, I am a scientist, or perhaps a civil servant, but I need to know everything about this, er, Temporal Messaging. It has enormous political potential, but I do not want to go off half-cocked at a cabinet meeting if it comes to nothing.”

  Now that the intimidating agents were no longer present, and as the alcohol hit his blood stream, Riley began to relax. He felt better; he noticed that the tremor had disappeared from his hands.

  “There isn’t much to tell,” he said, “I’ve been receiving, what appear to be emails from the future, for about a year. I have copies of them.”

  “Yes, so do we now,” said Oakwood. His smile had a hint of self-satisfaction. He had the habit of steepling his fingers in front of his face, thumbs under his chin and slowly rubbing his lips with his forefingers. It reminded Riley of an irritating personal tutor from his early student years. “So how do you suppose it’s being done Dr Riley?” he asked

  “I’m not sure how Temporal Messaging operates yet, but I assume I’ll work it out once somebody underwrites the research.” Riley smiled at his own faultlessly circular logic. Oakwood reached forward to top up his glass. Riley noticed that Oakwood was barely drinking from his own. “There’s no need for coercion,” he said. “I can’t afford to fund this project; it has to be financed by the Government.”